


dialogues at dawn

by monsterbate



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries, Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms
Genre: Apologies, F/M, Gen, Shovel Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 09:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13567332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterbate/pseuds/monsterbate
Summary: William Darcy does not always do well with different, but he could understand the importance of understanding different if it made him a better person.Conversations at dawn with the people he has wronged.





	dialogues at dawn

**Author's Note:**

> The one aspect of the LBD that I always wanted explored was how the public nature of Darcy's first proposal/confession impacted his relationships with Lizzie's family. In the novel, the cruelty of his words are kept close—they go no further than Elizabeth and her good opinion eventually nullifies them. But LBD broke that covenant and the lack of follow-through always drove me slightly batty. Therefore, I fic.

William Darcy wakes shortly after six in the morning. The room is half-lit and he realizes he had neglected to close the blinds completely the night before. The cause—the cause for everything, he is starting to believe—is lying sprawled across half the bed on her stomach, hair an auburn halo against—against the pillow.

He feels the startling drop in his stomach again, watching her sleep. The dizzying, confusing feeling coursing through him; the impossible, terrifying surge of emotion.

But that will save for later because she needs her rest and he needs to—  

He reaches for his phone but it is not where it belongs on the bedside table, plugged in and ready for him to begin his day. It is not on the dresser against the wall, nor is it on the matching bedside table on—on the other side of the bed.

His mind refuses to label things. It would be—it would be presumptuous to assume that she had a side, or a pillow, or a place beside him until she confirmed it. That lesson was one with teeth.

He sits up and eases himself from between the covers, finding the robe he once used hung on the hook on the door where he had left it when they vacated Netherfield so many months ago. It is familiar in a way that makes him feel slightly strangled because the last time he had worn it, he had been a different man in love with a different woman. Someone who awoke at six in the morning because it was expected of a man in his position; someone who believed that those who lingered in bed were lazy or unambitious.

His conscience—which sounds suspiciously like a redhead wearing a cheap satin bow tie—tells him this is not true: that those who did not train themselves to wake early were not flawed in some way. They were simply—different.

William Darcy does not always do well with different, but he could understand the importance of understanding different if it made him a better person. A person worthy of—

He breathes out.

The sitting room outside his bedroom is also in a state of disarray: there are two wine glasses on the coffee table and coats slung across the chairs. He can see a purse dropped next to the couch, assorted miscellania spilling out.

He finds his phone in his jacket pocket and searches for Lydia Bennet’s number in his emails from when he’d been in the middle of his investigations into her situation. He copies it to his address book and saves the contact, wondering what Lizzie will think at seeing her sister’s information in his phone. If it is presumptuous, or if it is something else. Something good.

Before he calls, he reminds himself of what he had said and what he had been. He remembers what Lizzie had said, about misunderstandings and directness. He presses call and he waits.

The line rings thrice before she answers.

::

“Darcy? Is Lizzie okay?”

“Good morning,” he says, and then realizes what she has said. “Oh, no—your sister, Lizzie, she’s fine. How did you—?”

“—know it was you? Caller ID, obvy. If Lizzie’s fine what’ya calling at six in the morning for?”

He realizes suddenly that he should have waited until at least—a reasonable hour. “Oh—I didn’t—Apologies, for calling so early—”

“Darcy: it’s fine. I was up.” She exhales, almost a sigh, and in the silence he thinks he can hear the sound of her heartbreak, the sound of her hurt. GiGi had sounded the same, in the weeks and months after, when he would call her and not know what to say, trapped by the sound of her breathing.

“Yes, good. I mean—I’m sorry for calling so early, nevertheless.” He pauses, considering. “I still do not understand how you knew it was me.” 

“Cause I got your number?” A huff, perhaps laughter, and Lydia’s voice is almost full of verve. “Perhaps I know people, Darcy. Or maybe Lizzie texted it to me yesterday in case anything happened since you kidnapped her from her family home like some kind of creepy weirdo.”

He hopes this is not another mark against him; he hopes that she is teasing but he has never been good at this sort of thing. “I hope no one was worried; we thought it best to take our conversation somewhere where we would not disturb anyone—”

She snorts. “You don’t need to tell me why you wanted privacy with her, mm’kay? I mean, she is my sister even if she is a colossal nerd.”

This could be going better, he thinks. He’s not entirely certain how to respond to Lydia’s frankness and he can feel himself seizing up at the length of the silence.

“So…” she drawls after a moment, “why did you call me again?”

He swallows and sorts his words into something that might begin to make amends. “I am calling to apologize, for things I said and things I did that were not—”

“If this is about _him_ you can stop right now because I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it.”

He’s nodding, which he realizes she can’t see, so he clears his throat. “Yes. I understand. This is—this is not entirely about that. This is also about the things I said to your sister last year. The things I said about you, specifically.”

Lydia exhales, and when she speaks her voice is full of hollow cheer. He knows the sound of that, as well. “It’s fine. Just something else you and Lizzie have in common, after all.”

“No,” he says shortly.

“Is—Lizzie isn’t making you call me, is she?” The anger steeps through the connection.

“No,” he repeats. “She’s still—she’s still asleep.”

“Gross,” Lydia humphs.

“I’m calling you because I was—I was wrong about the things I said and also the tenor I chose to express those things. My intentions last year were not—I was being dismissive and prideful when I spoke of Lizzie’s family, including yourself, and it was not...it was not well done.”

Lydia pauses. “You were kind of an ass.”

“I do not think I was ‘kind of’ anything; I believe I was _entirely_ an ass.”

“Hmm,” she mutters. There’s the sound of shuffling and a door closing. She clears her throat. “It really—it really hurt my feelings, when you called me that. It made me feel—” She breaks off, and there’s some more rustling on her end. “It made me feel like I couldn’t be myself anymore because myself was somehow _wrong_. And that’s—that’s not a good feeling?”

He wants to interrupt and provide assurances and close the book on this conversation because he wants it fixed and wants not to have to wade into the murky place of emotion that does not have clear rules or solutions. But he knows that is not how people work, or how he should react because that would be—rude, and unkind. So he listens and he nods and he realizes he’s nodding again and says, “Yes, I can see that,” and waits for her.

“And, well, it sucked but you can’t be _entirely_ an ass or Lizzie wouldn’t be so gaga over you. So, I guess…I guess I accept your apology, Darcy. Thank you—thank you for making it.”

“Yes, well. You—you deserved better from me. You are extremely important to Lizzie and had I been—better—I would have known that and respected you instead of being—”

“A douchebag?” She laughs, and this time it sounds real.

“Er; that is perhaps not the exact phrasing I would have chosen, but—”

“Thank you, by the way, for what you did.”

He is momentarily thrown by the change in topic before he is able to reorient himself. “You really do not need to—”

“Oh, shut up,” she says and he thinks she might be rolling her eyes. “I get it: you did it for Lizzie because you _lurve_ her or whatever but it helped me, too, so I get to say thanks regardless.”

“It wasn’t entirely—”

“It’s—fine, but I really don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted you to know that I am. Thankful. Because you’re not—you’re not a bad guy, Darcy. Consider this your shovel talk.”

“...shovel talk?” he repeats, confused again.

“Did you date, like, hermits before or something? Yes: shovel talk. If you, bossman Darcy, hurt my sister, Elizabeth Bennet, in any way, shape, or form, I will murder you to death. I will then bury your remains scattered across many deserts so you will never be found. I will dig very, very deep holes with a shovel. And this is a talk. Hence, _shovel talk._ So be careful.”

He feels the strangest joy at her bloodthirsty description and realizes that this is her form of accepting him and he can understand it, even if it is different than how GiGi or Fitz or Bing would speak of such things.

“I understand, Lydia, and I thank you.”

“Thank me? For threatening you? What _are_ you?”

“Thank you for loving Lizzie enough to threaten me. And thank you for believing that I’m worth threatening.”

“Oh my _god_ , shut up, shut up.”

He is pleased, he thinks, at the embarrassed whine in her voice, and the fact that she sounds like Lydia Bennet again and not a shell and that she is telling him to shut up and he realizes that even if Lizzie were not asleep in the next room, he would care about this girl and her life and her well being because she deserves it, and because she reminds him of his sister and because she is brave and loyal and smart.

It is a sobering thought and he wonders if this is what it is, to be a better person.

“Thank you for answering my call this morning, Lydia.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever: I still can’t believe you called me at six in the morning rather than sleeping in. I mean—” She pauses. “Please don’t tell me she slept in a guest room last night, Darce. Please don’t tell me you’re that bad at girls.”

“She didn’t—”

“Seriously: you need to get off this call and go fix that situation like immediately.”

“There was no guest room,” he manages finally, and he is answered by Lydia’s snort.

“Ew, _gross_ , Darce. Really: keep it to yourself. And Lizzie, probably. Ugh. Anyways.”

“Anyways,” he repeats. “I hope you have a good day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I will.”

“I did—I was wondering if you could answer a question for me.”

“Is it about Lizzie?”

“Oh, no. It’s—I would like to call...your sister, Jane, to offer my apologies to her as well.”

“Darce. That’s—I’ll text you her number. It’s—what, like, ten there? She’ll be on break, or she should be.”

“Yes. Good. Thank you.”

“You are so weird,” Lydia says, and now he’s sure he can hear her smile. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Lydia.”

The line goes silent and he breathes out and out and out.

::

The coats have been hung in the front closet and the wine glasses rinsed and placed in the dishwasher and there is fresh coffee brewing when Lydia’s text arrives. He copies Jane’s number into his address book and saves it, because he will do this correctly.

And before he calls, he reminds himself of what he had done and what he thought he was. He remembers what he has learned from Lizzie, about assumptions and regret. He presses call and he waits.

The line rings twice before she answers.

::

“Jane Bennet’s phone.”

The voice is not Jane’s and he freezes for a moment before recognition trickles in. “Bing?”

For a long moment, there is no response, and then Bing speaks. “Yes? Is this—Darcy?”

He cannot help but hear the strain in Bing’s voice, the sudden wariness. He knows this is his fault, for requiring such sacrifice without any reason or cause. “Yes, Bing; yes, this is William Darcy calling. I was—I was hoping to speak to Jane.”

Another pause, another hesitation. “Is everything okay? Are her sisters—do they need—”

“No. No; I am calling because I—because I would like to speak to Jane. To apologize. To her, and to you, for my actions and my—”

Bing laughs, and there is no rancor in it because he is a better man. “Oh, man, you don’t need to—it’s fine.”

But _fine_ is not _good_ and he doesn’t think he can enumerate the differences without sounding vaguely ridiculous. “I absolutely do need to. My actions and my interference were—Bing, I presumed to know you, and Jane, and what was best for you. And I am sorry for it and I want to—I _need_ to apologize for that to you both.”

Bing pauses. “Yeah, well, it’s my fault, too, for letting you interfere. But it’s good to hear from you. Are you still in San Francisco?”

“I am not.”

“Wait—have you seen Lizzie?”

“I—that is, she and I have had an opportunity to reconnect, and—”

Bing laughs again. “You’re at Netherfield, aren’t you? Way to go!”

The fact that they know each other so well means that he knows what Bing is saying and is not saying, and it makes it easier to say what he needs to without sorting his words. “I will be sure to leave it exactly as I found it.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m just—happy that things are working out for you. They are working out for you, right?”

He’s nodding again. “Yes. Yes, I think they are.”

“Good! Good. Man, I’m glad. You were really—you really liked her.”

“Thank you, Bing. I am also pleased that you were able to succeed in a reconciliation as well.”

Bing laughs. The sound is clear and makes his shoulders loosen because Bing would not be able to laugh like that were he still angry. “Yes. Yeah, it’s great. We’ve been having a great time in the city. Jane got a surprise day off because she worked last weekend and so we’re getting brunch and she’s off talking to one of the waitresses right now about their shoes.”

“Shoes?” He asks, and it’s all Bing needs to continue. Once, this would have been a frustration because the hyperbole and is somewhat ridiculous and tangents are not productive but now he understands Bing is merely happy, and eager to share that happiness with those he cares about.

He can listen to Bing’s happiness indefinitely if it means Bing cares about him.

“Yeah, she thought they were perfect to go with a dress she’s designing, I think? So she wanted to know where to get a pair for herself. She’s hoping to pull a collection together for her boss in the next few weeks because she—her boss, that is—thinks Jane has potential, which is just. So wonderful.”

There’s a muffled sound on the other end and then Bing is saying, “Yes; it’s Darcy—he wanted to speak to you? Okay, let me just—” And then a pause before he says, “Okay, Jane’s back so I’ll talk to you later, right? It was good to talk. Seriously.”

A moment and some shuffling later and Jane’s bell-like voice comes through the line. “Hello? This is Jane.”

“Hello, Jane. This is—this is William Darcy.”

“Hello,” she repeats and the space where ' _it’s so good to hear from you'_ fits is heavy and hard. “How may I help you?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt your meal—”

“It’s nothing; we’re just waiting on the check. Bing said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes.” He inhales, exhales. “That is, yes; I am calling to apologize.”

“Darcy. William, I mean: you don’t need to apologize—”

“The things I said and the actions I took to—to separate you and Bing were…” He feels the magnitude of it keenly; knows that it is an unforgivable divide. But to be better, he must at least try. He listens to the silence and feels helpless. “I am very sorry for my actions as well as what I said over the last year. It was unconscionable and—”

“You meant well,” Jane offers and he finds himself wanting so desperately to accept her benediction. She is making this too easy for him.

“I do not think that is excuse enough,” he manages. “I was rude and dismissive of those I did not—of the the people around me, and that includes you, and I am very sorry for the pain and...and hurt I caused.”

Jane is silent for a long moment, the occasional sound of glassware in the background. “I—I appreciate the call. While I don’t think you need to apologize, it—it’s very kind of you to do so. Have you—talked to Lizzie about any of this?”

He finds that his words have fled him entirely. “I—yes. That is, we have spoken.”

“Spoken?” she repeats, and now there’s a thread of feeling in her voice that is familiar, that sounds like she had sounded last summer.

“I do not wish to speak for her, of course, but we appear to be in agreement about certain aspects of our acquaintance that were previously...not in accord.”

“And what does that mean?” she asks, and if she’s teasing him he wishes he could tell.

“We are—in negotiations?” he tries again, and she laughs.

“Well, I suppose negotiations are good. She...I don’t think it would be divulging any of her secrets to tell you she missed you very much these last few weeks.” Her voice is pleased, light, and he is beginning to realize that Jane will forgive him once she’s certain her sister is happy and not before. He feels unfettered at the immense depth of Jane’s loyalty and affection for her sisters, and he respects her, he realizes, and the selflessness that has made her who she is.

“She, I think, has become aware that I have—been missing her, as well.”

“Yes! Yes. Good. I’m so very glad to hear that, Willi—Darcy.”

“William—William is fine, if you like.”

She must be smiling because he thinks he can hear it through the connection. “I look forward to getting to know you better, William.”

“Yes. Likewise.”

She exhales, and there is only the briefest of pauses before she speaks again. “Thank you again for calling, and for your—for what you said. It means a lot to us. To me. And—and please tell Lizzie hello from me?”

He smiles because this is something he understands, even in its strangeness. Jane Bennet cares about her sister and because she cares about her sister, she will also care about him. “I can absolutely pass along the message.”

“Thank you. It was so good to hear from you.” He feels her sincerity down the line.

“The gratitude is entirely mine. I hope you have a good day.”

“You as well. I’m sure I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Goodbye, Jane” he says.

The line goes silent and he breathes out and out and out.

::

 


End file.
